


Triskele

by Bitsy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsy/pseuds/Bitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three-legged Celtic symbol on Derek's back has meanings upon meanings.  Stiles inadvertently offends, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triskele

It started with a simple trip to a grocery store.

"Hey! Look, temporary tattoos."

They were like children, they really were. All too happy to plunk a quarter into a cheap machine at the front of the store in hopes of getting Batman, or Spider-Man. Failing that, they'd settle for a grinning skull or cartoon mouse. So Scott was deeply disappointed when he popped open the little plastic egg, and something...deeply lame unfurled.

"...Crap, I can't wear this!"

Stiles, who was inspecting his own cheap rub-on tat (a knock-off version of the Joker), looked up at Scott.

"What'd you get, Hello Kitty?" That would be hilarious and encouraged, honestly. Scott the werewolf walking around with a Hello Kitty fake tattoo. Comedy gold.

"No, worse."

Scott held up the little piece of folded paper, its cellophane cover crinkling slightly as it was smoothed flat. On it was a triskele, the three-legged symbol that adorned Derek's back. This was a very cheap version, obviously, hardly an inch across, and didn't swirl as much. But the implications were immediate, and Stiles' eyes popped open wide. 

"...Yeah, you can't wear that."

Both boys contemplated the similarities between this and Derek's six-inch piece of ink, and Scott frowned adorably.

"He'd rip my head off and spit down the stump."

"I don't think he'd go that far," mused Stiles. "He's too much of a gentleman to spit."

Scott groaned, and turned to the trash can next to the vending machines. Stiles grabbed his arm.

"Hey, hey! Don't throw it out! Look dude, I'll trade you, you can have Faux-Joker and I'll take that one."

Scott's eyebrows hit his hairline, and he looked around furtively, as if afraid somebody would overhear this conversation and kill them both on the spot. Boy was getting paranoid.

"You can't wear it either!" he hissed between his teeth, even as he handed over the little inch-wide piece of paper. Stiles thoughtlessly gave Scott the Joker, and was inspecting the triskele like it contained the secrets of the universe. And maybe it did. A strange look came over his features, and he started blinking a lot. Too much Adderall, maybe. Or just maybe it was Stiles being Stiles.

"Why not?" he asked, tucking the temporary tattoo away into his pocket. "I might be pack, but I'm no beta. What's he gonna do to me?"

"Uh...rip off your head and spit down the stump?"

"We've established he won't spit."

Scott threw up his hands in defeat, just as his mother was wrapping up her transaction at the checkout.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!"

Melissa McCall strolled over, pushing her cart full of groceries, and stared at the two teenage boys. Poor, long-suffering Melissa. She gave them both a look that suggested that this, what they were doing right now, was the worst thing they'd ever done, and she'd seen her son transforming into a monster.

"Temporary tattoos? Really, boys?"

"They're cool," said Scott defensively. "Look! Fake Joker. That's cool, right?"

"Suuuuuuure, Scott. Come on, let's go. Stiles, text your father and tell him dinner's been moved up to seven."

"Okay, Scott's Mom."

Scott and Melissa rolled their eyes and made their way out to the car, as Stiles trailed behind. He pulled that triskele out of his pocket again and stared at it, nearly getting run over in the parking lot in his distraction. Why was this calling to him so much?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staring at himself in his bathroom mirror that night, he tried to figure out where he should put it. Fresh out of the shower, he was a blank canvas for this cheesy little piece of stick-on, made in China, costing a quarter. Clean, dry skin was necessary, according to all universal temporary tattoo instructions (that hadn't come with the tattoo, of course), and he was as clean and dry as he could be. Where? Someplace conspicuous? Someplace hidden? Did he _want_ Derek to see it? Or not? Either option made his heart skip a beat in anticipation. Damn it, Stiles, get a grip. It's a sticker for your skin, it's meaningless, it's temporary, it's not like you're actually getting a tattoo.

He grabbed a cotton puff, slipped it under the faucet, and got it damp. He peeled the cellophane away, discarding it thoughtlessly, letting it flutter to the tile floor. And he slapped the paper face-down over his left pectoral muscle, just above his heart. One swipe, two swipes, three swipes of the cotton puff...and it was done.

As the paper dried, he gingerly peeled it away, revealing the stark symbol attached to his chest. The cheapness of the thing was revealed, and he was slightly disappointed; the sticker wasn't as black as it appeared on paper. With his skin underneath, it turned more of a navy blue. And one of the legs hadn't transferred fully, it was cracked and separated on the end of the foot. But...it was still a triskele, and it was still on his chest. Pressing his lips together to suppress a grin, he threw away the detritus that came with the tattoo, and slipped into his maroon bathrobe. He didn't want his father to see it, just in case. Because of course the sheriff would recognize it, and wonder if Stiles was joining some weird werewolf cult. Which...honestly? He actually already had.

And as he curled up in bed that night, playing a mindless match game on his phone, he couldn't help but reach up and touch the tattoo, brushing a fingertip across it possessively.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When the pack met for training, Stiles was always there. As usual. What was different today was the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt with the collar cut out. He never did that. He looked like a big, fat dork trying to look cool. Derek could get away with low-neck shirts. Jackson could get away with low-neck shirts. Even Boyd could get away with low-neck shirts. But Stiles? Nope. Big fat nope. Nope nope nope. But he did it anyway. Because if he wore a regular t-shirt, nobody could see his triskele. Even like this, it was barely visible, just the top of one leg poking up over the top of his neckline. And that was further obscured by his ubiquitous red hoodie. Lydia was the only one who seemed to catch on, and she shot Stiles a warning glare. Like...a cross between "don't mess with things you don't understand, little boy" and "are you absolutely fucking retarded?"

Stiles just grinned at her and waved over the top of his notebook.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"What the hell are you doing?"

Stiles looked up from his notebook, into the glaring red eyes of the Beacon Hill pack's alpha. Derek was staring at him like he was prey, pondering his jugular. And then Derek's eyes flicked down to Stiles' chest, making his intent very obvious. Stiles shivered, his heart skipping a beat. He noticed! But because he was Stiles, he decided to play dumb.

"Taking...notes? On today's training session? Like you told me to do?"

He glanced around Derek's shoulder, and noticed that the rest of the pack had split. They had spotted the gathering thunderstorm, and wisely sought the horizon. Stiles had been too wrapped up in his notes to see it coming. So now he was alone with Derek, and for some reason that didn't frighten him as much as it usually did. Derek snorted in annoyance, and batted the notebook out of Stiles' hands. Stiles yelped in surprise.

"Hey! What the hell, dude?"

"This! What the hell are you doing with _this?_ "

Derek's fingers grabbed the top of Stiles' shirt, and yanked it down harshly, revealing that temporary tattoo. The fabric of the shirt cut into the back of Stiles' neck, and he winced hard, because damn that hurt! But then Derek was poking at the tattoo with a harsh finger, and that was oddly thrilling. Defiantly, Stiles stared him down, his brown eyes bright and his lips curling up in an involuntary smirk.

"It's temporary. Jesus, dude, you don't own the copyright on the triskelion."

That got a deep, dark growl out of Derek, and his eyes sparked even redder. Stiles knew he'd crossed a line, but then again, hadn't he been _counting_ on that? If Derek did rip his head off and spit down the stump, he'd still be glad he'd traded Scott for the thing. But still, he gulped in worry, and started to back down a bit.

"It's no big deal. It's just a cheap tempy. It'll be gone in a week. Chill, god."

Derek was silent for a moment, but then harshly grabbed Stiles' arm, yanking him upright, letting the shirt go. They glared at each other, Derek's temper barely contained.

"It'll be gone _now._ "

"What? Why? Oh, come on, you can't be serious!" Stiles was the only one who could whine at Derek like that, and not get smashed into oblivion. If one of his betas talked like that, they'd get their furry butts handed to them, and Stiles knew it, and took _full_ advantage. Which only served to piss Derek off even more. The alpha started to march Stiles over to his parked Camaro, and his werewolf strength meant that Stiles couldn't escape his grip. Nor did he want to, right now. His heart was hammering in his chest again, from a combination of fear...and something deeper, darker, and unnamed. Fear was transient. What he felt below that had solid foundations and permanent roots.

Tossing Stiles carelessly aside, Derek popped open the trunk of his Camaro, and pulled out his first aid kit. It wasn't like a human first aid kit; this one contained wolfsbane antidotes and dark, cloying liqueurs for treating various ailments available only to lycanthropes. Of course, it also had its fair share of bandages, sterile cotton balls, and plain old rubbing alcohol. That was his target, and he yanked the bottle out while Stiles was still recovering, still rubbing his upper arm. He hadn't even thought of running away.

"I'm gonna bruise there, you know. You don't have to yank me around like I'm a goddamn little red wagon, I can walk, I have legs, see? Legs. They work perfectly fine!"

Derek ignored all of this, and thrust the bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab at Stiles.

"Take it off. Now. Or I do it for you, and take some skin with it."

"Why?"

Stiles was sullen, still stunned that this was the reaction. He'd expected a confrontation, sure, but in his head that confrontation didn't end like this. It was really upsetting, to see Derek so angry, so irrational about it.

"Tell me what it means," growled Derek, pointing a finger that was just barely not a claw at the offending mark. "Go on. You're the researcher. You know what it means."

Stiles was brought up short. He hadn't expected that. He'd expected some more posturing and growling and a refusal to elaborate. So he was a little slow getting the meaning off his tongue.

"Traditionally the triskelion, or triskele, is a symbol of forward motion, three legs in constant movement." He sounded like the Wikipedia entry, which he'd absorbed last night before putting the tat on his skin. "It's a symbol for the human race, to move on, to keep trying. It's also associated with the holy trinity, father, son, and the holy spirit, or body, mind and soul."

Derek was unmoved during that recital, still staring Stiles down, his eyes still bright red. Stiles was totally unnerved by that stare, and in his nerves, he kept talking.

"It's also seen as a symbol of competition, the three legs representing the struggles that people have when they're trying for a great goal. And it's also associated with the phases of the moon..."

"Enough."

Stiles shut up, and slowly reached up to take the rubbing alcohol from Derek's hands. The red was leeching out of Derek's eyes, leaving them their usual soft hazel. Something in what Stiles had said had finally stilled the temper, but he didn't know what. Was it the bit about the moon? Maybe. That would make a lot of sense as a werewolf. 

"You did do your research. So what makes you think you've earned that mark?"

And Stiles' jaw dropped. So that's what this was about! 

"What makes you think I haven't?"

The words left Stiles' lips before he even had a chance to halt them, and he heard them as if they were being said a long distance away, by somebody else. For all his chafing against the alpha's rule, this was the boldest he'd ever been. He could see the line of Derek's shoulders stiffen, and his face harden into a snarl. But Stiles didn't submit, not this time.

"You have no idea," he said to the werewolf, finally breaching some long-pent-up spring inside him, piercing the dam and letting it go. His voice got more and more heated as he ranted it all out. "You have _no idea._ I've had to let go, to move on, to keep going. For _years._ And my trinity is _broken._ I had a perfect three, and now it's only two, because I had to watch my mother...I'm not talking about that. Okay? I've had to move forward with my best friend as he became something _else._ I've had to learn about a world that was totally alien to me. You...you born ones, you grow up with it, but people like Scott, he gets pushed in to drown! And I had to get pushed in right along with him. I've been moving forward with you, and your pack, for months now! Ages! And not only that, but you all come to me, ask me what's up, and I _find_ it for you, keeping us all above water. We all move forward together! That's what it means to me! It's not just about you, Alpha-wolf! This is all of us, this means pack to me! You wear it for the same reason, I know you do, you're not allowed to tell me I'm not pack, either. And don't you dare look me in the eye and tell me I haven't grown, because I have, okay?! I am really fucking defensive about that! I've earned it!"

There was a long silence in the woods, punctuated only by soft breezes and songbirds proclaiming their existence. Stiles was left panting after that monologue, but he wasn't crying. He was proud of himself for that, for keeping it together. Usually when he even thought about his mother, it made his throat close up and the tears spring to his eyes instantly. Derek, on the other hand, was looking unusually touched, the perpetual frown he wore softening into a worried grimace.

After a long moment, Derek reached forward and unscrewed the cap to the alcohol, and Stiles slumped in defeat, sighing sadly.

"After all that, you're still making me take it off?"

"Yeah. Because it shouldn't be a cheap temporary."

His eyes flicked back up in surprise, taking in Derek's face as the alpha soaked the cotton ball. And Derek's eyes were distant as he reached forward and wiped the sticker off Stiles' chest. The cold, antiseptic touch of the alcohol was surprisingly arousing, and Derek's hands were gentle. The cheap navy blue symbol started to crumble in the onslaught, beading up and dissolving away with each swipe. Stiles was left trembling at the end of it, as Derek re-capped the bottle.

"These things have meaning," said the alpha quietly. "And the medium is part of the symbol. Putting that on temporarily totally destroys the meaning. If you're going to claim it, make it forever, Stiles."

Derek put the first aid kit away, and closed the trunk with a muffled thump that echoed through the empty woods. Stiles was silent, focusing on the sensations of his body only right now, the way his arm still throbbed, the way the cool breeze felt on his now-unadorned chest as the alcohol dried rapidly. It was all he could handle right now, because his spirit was still bleeding from his long confession. The fear from earlier was gone, leaving only that unnamed thing behind, exposed and vulnerable.

"Did it hurt?" he asked suddenly, as Derek turned to walk away. "Getting the tattoo, I mean. They say it hurts."

Derek smirked, and turned back to Stiles, leaning up against his car's side.

"Hurts less than turning into a wolf."

"Gee, that's a big help," snarked Stiles, regaining his mental footing again. "I'll keep that in mind, oh wait."

Derek rolled his eyes and started to walk away. Stiles was instantly springing after him, chasing him, like a puppy on the heels of its mother. The werewolf took a sniffing breath, and then paused, turning back to Stiles curiously. Stiles stopped short, surprised by that, almost bumping into Derek.

"You're pack," he said quietly, putting a hand on Stiles' shoulder to steady him, "and you don't need to impress me, or pull stunts like this. You've got my attention, Stiles."

For once, Stiles was speechless, and he stared at his alpha with wide eyes. He was glad he wasn't that much shorter than Derek, he'd never stop being intimidated. And intimidation was not a good partner to go along with that unnamed thing he felt. He took in a quick breath, more a gasp than anything, and nodded without a word. Derek nodded back, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"I'm also wondering why you smell like you're turned on right now."

And Stiles world went white. That little gasp became a big gasp, and he actually staggered away from Derek's hand. Derek's eyebrows went up, and he pursued the fleeing boy. And he was wearing a predatory smirk.

"That's the last leg of the triskele you forgot to mention," he teased the boy, enjoying this now. "You mentioned your family, and you mentioned your pack...but you didn't mention me. I wonder why?" 

Stiles kept moving, backpedaling as quickly as he could, and was only stopped when he backed himself right into a rather poky tree branch. It got him in the lower back, and he winced as his backward progress was stopped. That was a problem, because then he had a smirking alpha right up in his grill. He'd often wished that Derek would smile, but this wasn't a smile. This was a mouth full of very pointy bared teeth. He was fully convinced that he was about to get the snot beaten out of him. Stupid werewolf senses! It shouldn't be allowed, to smell somebody's hormonal changes. It wasn't fair, he had no control over what turned him on. He was a teenager, everything turned him on, it was par for the course!

"It's...it's nothing," gasped the boy, not daring to meet Derek's green eyes. Derek's eyebrows went up again.

"The third leg of your triskele? Me? Nothing? That's not very nice, Stiles."

"No, I mean me being turned on! It's nothing!"

"So you are turned on."

Stiles groaned as the trap was sprung, and he was mentally cursing out Scott for having the bad luck of picking out that damn tattoo. Derek chuckled, and finally backed off, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Consider this your goal to attain," he said, looking way too amused by all of this. Stiles eased himself off the tree branch, staring down his alpha, ready to flee if need be. There was way too much going unspoken in this conversation now, and he wanted to have it spelled out plainly. Of course, that wasn't meant to be.

"What do you mean?"

"When you can be open about what's going on with your feelings, you can get the triskele tattooed on your chest." Of course. Of course Derek put this back on him. What a jerk. "Same spot. But not before that."

"...I can't get a tattoo til I'm eighteen anyway."

"Exactly!" said Derek cheerfully, finally grinning hugely. It was as if Stiles had just gotten a very difficult lesson right, earning a gold star from the teacher. Stiles worked through the implications, and his eyes went wide.

And Derek, Derek Hale, sourwolf extraordinare, winked at him. Actually _winked._

"Like I said. You've got my attention."

And then he was walking away, whistling tunelessly as he went to find the rest of the pack. Stiles was left to pick up the pieces of his shattered sense of reality. What...the hell had just happened? Scratching at his chest, he finally hiked his t-shirt up, trying to cover up his collarbone...and the newly-bare, bereft of a triskele spot. It felt like he should cover it up now, like it was too raw and bright to keep revealed. Those unnamed feelings in him started sending out exploratory tendrils, suddenly given the water and light and food of Derek's attention.

He was in love with Derek Hale, and that was the goal he had to work toward. He understood now, and he had to earn it. The symbol's meaning shifted again, and Stiles was knocked breathless by it as he climbed back in his jeep. Oh. _Oh._ His family, his pack...his mate.

Crap in a hat, he hated Celtic symbolism right now.


End file.
